December 24, 1940
Buckinghamshire, England
What is it about a crisis that draws us closer to our loved ones? Why do the differences between us—minuscule and vast—seem to disappear against the backdrop of mounting catastrophe? It seems that a world war is necessary to erase the divide between Winston and me and our children and to remind us of the familial threads knitting us together.
As I gaze around the Christmas Eve dinner table, I am incredulous and grateful that every one of our children and their spouses—however tenuous their marriages—have been able to join us at Chequers, the designated country retreat for the prime minister. I smile at the unusually content Diana and her husband, Duncan; their sweet young children, Edwina and Julian, have retired to bed upstairs under their nanny’s care. The less contented Sarah sits adjacent to her husband, Vic; he has been the recipient of several withering glances from his wife because Vic, born in Austria but now an American citizen, wants to relocate to the United States, despite Sarah’s obvious loyalty to Britain and despite Winston’s orders that no member of the Churchill family should flee England. The birth of now-three-month-old little Winston has reunited Randolph and Pamela for the holidays, but I fear for the longevity of this reconciliation. Randolph has had some success as of late—he won a seat in Parliament in the fall, albeit an unopposed Preston seat, and his military work has been moderately successful, despite the dislike his men have for him—but his achievements have not slowed his gambling or philandering. It is only Pamela’s bond with Winston and me that incentivized her to join him here. Mary alone, who spent the summer safely in Norfolk with the family of my cousin Venetia and her daughter and the fall here at Chequers working for the Women’s Voluntary Service, remains unchanged by the war, and her even-tempered kindliness is a great solace to me and Winston. Of all our children, only poor little Marigold is not with us tonight, and quite against my wishes, I feel the melancholy pang of her absence after all these years. I brush away the unwelcome tear welling up in my eye with a quick motion of my finger and engage in the animated conversation among my children and their cousins about the “genie’s cupboard” where I used to store all their Christmas presents.
Our extended family has managed to join us as well, including Moppet, who sits happily by Mary’s side. Nellie seems surprisingly merry, despite the situations of both Giles and Esmond. Even though Goonie has been ill, Winston’s brother, Jack; Goonie; their children Johnny, Peregrine, and Clarissa; and their spouses and grandchildren rally for the holiday and gather around our table, and I overhear Winston say to his brother, “How I wish Mother were still alive to enjoy Chequers with us. She would have adored spending Christmas at the prime minister’s estate.” Strangely, his remark makes me long for my own mother, even though our always challenging relationship had grown more strained in the months before she died in Dieppe, drunk and broke from gambling, nearly fifteen years ago.
Even though we are not spending Christmas at the family home in Chartwell, I had wanted to make Chequers glow with my usual Chartwellian Christmas spirit. Although Chartwell is boarded up for the duration of the war, several weeks ago, I invaded its storage to bring the familiar holiday decorations to Chequers. During my brief jaunt to Chartwell to organize the precise boxes to bring to Chequers, I passed by the kitchen garden. The sharp peak of the sundial peered over the hedge, and I stepped onto the garden path and walked toward the chest-high structure, which also served as a memorial to the dove Terence Philip had purchased for me in Bali years ago. I ran my fingers along the inscription at the sundial’s base, from a poem by W. P. Ker about not straying from one’s home and lingering on islands too long. I’d had the inscription made during a wistful stage.
How long ago those days on the Rosaura seem, I thought to myself. In each life, it seemed that there was one dispositive choice, the choice that narrowed and excluded some possibilities but expanded and enlarged many others. Even though there’d been a time when I believed I should circle back and change my definitive choice and select another path for my life—the time period around the Rosaura—I now know that I’d been terribly mistaken. My dispositive decision was and had always been Winston, and the expansive, unorthodox life I’ve shared with him was the exact one I was meant to experience.
* * *
I glance around the room, pleased with the usual ornaments decorating the Christmas tree, and hope the children take notice. I want to remind them of the singular occasion of the year in which I commit myself entirely to bringing our family unity and joy. I do this in the hopes they will experience the same feelings, even in these tumultuous times.
But I have held back a little in honor of wartime, particularly in my selection of food and decor. I cannot invest fully in a lavish meal when I know many are eating cheap mutton for their Christmas dinner rather than the traditional goose and turkey and will be serving the conventional pudding with carrots instead of the unattainable fruit called for by the recipes. And how can I decorate every corner of Chequers when I know many will not even be able to celebrate in their homes? For many British citizens, Christmas, which has come to be known as Blitzmas, because the Nazis show no sign of ceasing their nightly bombing for the holiday season, will be spent in an air-raid shelter. Even though I know the British people, resilient beyond imagination, will endeavor to imbue the holiday with the Christmas spirit, I try to soften this terrible blow. I orchestrate underground canteens—I’ve heard that shelter Christmas parties will be organized around them with singing, skits, and dancing—arrange for the larger shelters to have Christmas trees, and plan for a costumed Father Christmas to visit many shelters as well. I can do nothing about the cancellation of street-side caroling, deemed unsafe with the bombings and blackouts, or the requirement that factory employees must work on Boxing Day instead of enjoying the holiday.
Winston knows all these details, of course, but his mind soars high over the battlefields and oceans. It does not often land in the streets with the ordinary folks as does mine. So guilt doesn’t factor into his mind when he sips his Pol Roger and raises his full champagne flute now. “To my family. This has been a year brimming with hardship and toil, and yet here we sit, most of us, safe and in the warmth of one another’s company. May we all reunite here—or at Chartwell—next Christmas, unharmed and a long step closer to victory.”
Every family member stands, careful to clink his or her flute with everyone else’s. When my glass touches Nellie’s, I see that her eyes, direct and frank as always, bear a sadness and worry too profound for tears, despite the merry smile painted upon her lips. What an unfathomable weight she carries, I think, with one son in a Nazi stronghold and another in Canada preparing for the war’s most dangerous role, that of pilot. And yet, here she stands, toasting to a happier new year. How resilient she is, and how forgetful are we of her plight.
We must honor Nellie’s nobility and sacrifice. I raise my glass again. “Here’s to Giles’s speedy return home from Germany. And here’s to our fighting boys, especially Esmond, who is not with us tonight. May they have victorious missions and safe delivery home.”
“Hear, hear.” The words echo throughout the cavernous Chequers dining room, followed by the melodious chime of crystal.
My sister nods to me in thanks and reaches across the table to clink my glass in a private toast. “To our other loved ones who are gone and missed—Bill and Kitty. And Mother as well.” The unbidden tears that I’d managed to hold back earlier now return, and for a brief, wondrous moment, I feel my long-gone brother and sister standing alongside Nellie and me. And Marigold as well.
I freeze this moment in my mind. I do not know what the next year will bring, other than certain warfare and privation, but I do know how fortunate I am to share this precise sliver of history with my family now.